The Magic Glasses
by pycus13
Summary: Can magic and technology combined beat a villain that is successful in his endeavors? No. Consequences must be suffered, victories must be earned, and entertainment must be provided. Time travel with a twist, canon backstory but with one difference that quickly spirals into great changes. Starts in the middle of Harry's first year at Hogwarts.
1. Teaser chapter

The Magic Glasses:

How I Stopped Worrying About Possessions And Learned  
To Love The Ride.

ACT I Who is this Bart character?

Chapter X: A teaser of what's to come.

In the beginning someone came with the idea to create virtual reality glasses. The technology wasn't developed enough and the idea didn't stick. Then the tech progressed and a prototype came about. Someone saw the prototype and had an idea of their own.

That person was none other than Harry Potter; who thought to himself: "If I was to make Goo… Wizard Glass, it wouldn't only have a camera, a microphone and a display. My Wizard Glass would also transmit and receive signals to and from the future. Wouldn't that be the most wonderful tool way back when, right Hermione?" Harry asked, and Hermione responded with: "Why not just take their prototype, stick it with an expanded space charm, put there everything you need, and just send it back in time?"

He thought about it, reached a conclusion and said: "That would be cool, and what's the worst that could happen?". Hermione's only response was a shrug. After that conversation some stuff happened and then the Wizard Glass came to be.

1st September 1994, 04:55 South Wales

On the quiet rural roads of South Wales, emptiness broken by a sporadic delivery van makes up the usual scenery. Little shops and supermarkets alike receive their morning newspapers still hot from the press, bakeries send their bread and pastries to the local shops, and farmers unload their produce in the back alleys. It's the way it used to be and that way it's going to remain, as the British do what they always did – carry on with business as usual. And thus, the roads stay empty. Well.. Maybe with one exception.

A green Saab dashed past the Welsh bends with great speed. If a road patrol were to see how insensible its driver behaved on these roads then well… The entire police force of Wales'd be out for his skin. And you can't blame them. After such display of a lack of common sense the sensible thing would be to ensure that the driver wouldn't survive for his trail. For the greater good, you know.

Leaving greater good aside, it was such a great machine it was. Scarab Green paintwork, Super Aero Wheels, black leather Recaro seats, capability of a greater power output than a Lamborghini Diablo, night vision cameras and one million dollar worth of kit from Saab's Project Prometheus enabling it to be driven remotely. All of that combined, along with the glasses on Harry Potter's nose, connected the car to the guy driving it. Coincidentally at the time of the chase the driver was only two years old, and yet he was currently driving it from behind a computer in a secret research lab somewhere in the Antarctic.

Meanwhile in the Saab, its three occupants had bigger problems than some bobbies of a non-country like Wales or what is the age of their baby/driver. Speeding as if chased in a Hollywood movie, the car performed superbly… Even despite the damaged entire right side of the car, smashed both the front and the rear windshields. Behind them in the twilight's light their adversaries were barely visible against the murky sky. Just a couple of shapes staying persistently within a hundred yards no matter what the Antarctic Transporter did behind the wheel, they still persisted there.

Wearing thee hole ski masks and dark loose-fitting clothing Harry, Hermione and Ron had their backs cold from sweat of what was the 20th minute of a breakneck chase. By this time the nitro tanks were empty and the initial shock from being ambushed wore off. The three were eager for a signal from the driver whether to counterattack, or continue to stay put counting on losing the tail.

Suddenly in Harry's right lens a message popped up: _20 seconds before we'll be out of these country roads and in the open, I'll slow down a bit so you won't get shaken out of the car while you light them up. Good luck!_

Screaming past the rushing wind from the broken windows Harry explained the plan to his friends.

-We've got twenty seconds before we hit them back! Hermione take the flare gun from behind your seat, and make them visible for us. At distance we go with the expalliarmus. Soon they're gonna get close once Bart slows down, then we hit them with sticky flames, if they get really close we'll have to wrench their brooms from beneath them with loviosa's. Get ready!

Harry, Ron and Hermione unbuckled their seatbelts and prepared for battle, counting down the seconds.

-I've got it! – Hermione screamed, and in no time at all she loaded and put the flare gun out of the window, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

As the Saab blasted onto the clearing the rows of trees and chest-high walls enclosing sheep pastures finished, putting an end to their cover and giving way to nothing but plains around the road. In the same moment the entire clearing lit up as Hermione's flare exploded within 20 yards of their assailants.

Having all of them being temporarily blinded gave Harry's crew time to take their positions in what was left of Saab's windows. Holding for their life with single hands they aimed at the six enemies now clearly visible against the sky. The first volley of spells missed of course, but the reason for choosing the expalliarmus was that it worked like a tracer round in an assault rifle. Leaving behind it a colorful tail that let the caster make corrections and aim his spells better the next time they've casted.

Lady luck smiled upon them on their third volley when Harry managed to hit one of them causing him to crash and cutting the number of people chasing the trio, down to five. Seeing this they've changed their tactics and flew after them sticking very close to the ground. Thinking quick, Ron adapted the quickest and switched from the expalliarmus to the sticky flames. Lobbing his shot perfectly it landed right in front of the grouped together baddies giving chase.

Being divided by just fifty yards his ball exploded with only twenty to go, with just enough time to the pairs on the outside to disperse. However the leader, probably still seeing stars in his eyes, blocked by his compatriots on both sides and with expalliarmuses flying above his head had nowhere else to go and was engulfed by the flames. To save his skin he had to focus on putting himself out and was out of the chase for good.

Without their leader the pairs on the brooms flanked them from both sides and with just about thirty yards between them they've begun to retaliate. Both sides cast their spells. Our heroes casting the Wingardium Leviosa on three of the assailants' brooms managed to mess with their shots. With great force their brooms were wrenched away from under them, and they've found themselves flying broomless.

Unfortunately there was one more of those bastards than there were Saab's occupants. In that single moment he had a clear shot. His Bombarda Maxima struck true, hitting the car in the rear-left, blowing out of it chunks of metal in every direction. In the explosion hot fragmentation injured everybody. Causing superficial wounds in those enjoying a tarmac breakfast/tumble, grazing in five places and embedding two small fragments in the last of the bastards, but the worst injured were the Saab's occupants.

Had a doctor got the chance to see them he would classify those injuries as severe and immediately put Harry, Ron and Hermione in intensive care. But considering where they currently were, by the time the professional help would be administered they'd be dead. So to be continued…


	2. Who's Bart?

AN: The prologue is not from the main character point of view but an introduction to a side chacter. That character enters the main story later on when the action swaps to the times of hogwarts. However this is not a time travel story, the progression is chronological, there is no going back to the past, there are no flashbacks or flashforwards. The character from this chapter enters the story via a plot device that will couse waves differenting this from canon. If you hate it when the story POV is not from the POV or about main characters you can skip this chapter and start from the next one.

The Magic Glasses:

How I Stopped Worrying About Possessions And Learned

To Love The Ride.

Act 1: Who is this Bart Character you speak of?

Chapter 1: Prologue. Get your ass to Mars!

Once upon a time, right after the fall of communism (fall of communism=freedom!) a baby was born in a very peculiar town of the old Eastern Block. Being small, poor and with a gloomy outlook on life, its only wish was to go west where blue was the sky. "True, to go west was once everyone's dream, but what about the just mentioned peculiarities?"

\- A question resounds. It then goes, on and on, makes waves on the grass plain of life, leaves its mark and perhaps even you, my dear reader, had had it form in your mind. But, if that is not the case, then maybe... Maybe a second option ought to be presented? Yes, in order to suit a broader audience, me - the narrator! Will produce... An alternative.

It is my pleasure, and sincere hope that with a choice... With this choice, the story, and my narration, will become more akin to your preferences, for you: the audience extraordinaire! So how about this as an alternative; another question to shape the narration! In case you didn't like the first one, let's test the narrator's thought - guessing - empathy skills, and produce another: "Like, why should I care about some baby communist (freedom!)? U S A! U S A !" Yes? No?

To answer both of these questions let me present you with a simple truth; that the description from the beginning concerned in fact not the baby, but the town. Yes, an entire town wants to go west... Buildings and all. Although, to be honest, no one can blame them, bombed by Hitler & Stalin, trampled with Napoleon's army and the Mongol horde's horses, burned as well as flooded many times… If any buildings deserved to move west, it was them.

Since buildings rarely migrate abroad, an assumption that I was talking about the baby was entirely reasonable. False, and a failure of imagination but yes, reasonable. No reason to feel ashamed. To be honest though, the description couldn't be about the baby. This is because, as most people agree, babies have no characteristics with which they could be described. "Seen a baby once, you've seen it a thousand times, sister!" - Goes a saying.

The reason why it goes like that has been lost to time. Though the general consensus stands, that it is the way it is, because the children are our future. Unfortunately the future is a thing that's utterly indescribable, therefore what it and by extension babies look like is going to stay a mystery forever. It is this narrator's belief that for that very reason, it is at present, the generally acceptable social norm that if you are unsure how to distinguish one baby from another, you'd just say that all babies look alike. Bada bim, bada boom, foggetaboutit, molto bene.

By now I'm definitely sure that this nonsense talk wore all too thin, and it is time to actually start going on with the story. Which we will, just as soon as I finish setting the scene. So here it goes. Due to the Reds leaving before the little blob was born, it wasn't a communist, ok? There. We're back on track. So, where were we? The peculiarities… Right. One such peculiarity is the town's history. It is so, because heck, it's old... It's so old yo mamma came down from a tree there. An apple tree. Why an apple tree?

It's simple really. Without freedom there's a void that builds in your heart. With a void in you, you can't feel whole. Without feeling whole, you're hungry. When you're hungry, you want a piece of pie. When you want a piece of pie, you think of freedom. When you think of freedom, you get apple pie. As every American knows, there is nothing that says freedom more than apple pie does (apple pie - freedom!), and so apple trees got everywhere. Just the nature's way of manifesting "the want for freedom" in primitive cultures. Majestic...

With that out of the way, let's just say that thanks to its history, the town had a certain kind of atmosphere, (an applesphere if you will), that once the baby grew into a young man, he'd describe in these words: "Sometimes, when the weather is clear, the evening is late or a morning is much too early for sensible people, if you'd just take a look... You'd feel as though from every corner of the city, the ages are calling back on to you."

Yup, my dear reader. The guy loved him some weak sauce like this. He thought that it was very grand indeed. Every time he came up with such things he got much satisfaction out of it . One of the things He used to think was that it amounted to a great combination of an artistic soul and a romantic mind. With such combination personified in words he must seem vibrantly attractive for the female psyche. With what, that tingle on their little smutty minds, it couldn't fail, right? (wrong)

That whole shebang started in Bart's childhood and from that point on, it fostered. Soon enough it became a trend and it only continued whilst he was growing up. It got so bad in his early teens that eventually, he became a full of himself tool. Let me give you an example. One of the things he used to say was that by the age of 13 he already had had ten girlfriends , and with the last one he did the sex. Testosterone oozed out of his skin along with pimples. Many pimples, much testosterone, such macho.

But well… That was then. So we'll put it lightly and say that at thirteen, he still had things to grow out of. However, several years later, during a coming of age party of one of his friends, that state of things would be subject to change, and he'd say something much more akin to reality. That party consisted of 3 other people: Mike, Dom, Vera. Mike was a ginger of a rather slight frame, Dom was the blond haired, tall and fit, picture perfect arian Romeo, and Vera was a black curly haired shorty with a lot of sex appeal and charm on the side.

Twas' in the late evening of a beautiful summer's day, in his friend's living room, when surrounded by close friends, having a merry ol' time and feeling a bit tipsy, he decided to tell a story (the ten girlfriends and sex by 13) and this, is what transpired:

-Hey! - Using his booming bass Bart called out to the rest of the party. -You guys remember middle school? - He began, determined to get the sweet deliverance that so often comes when sharing secrets.

Having had his glass refilled for the third time just moments before, he stood facing the lot of them with his drink of choice the Cuba Libre. He held it close to his chest planning to take his time telling that particular story, probing them for reactions as he spoke. That tale had to be closely tailored so as to not offend his audience's tastes with obscenities too quickly. He felt the need to tell it for so long. To have them shy away before he finished, and get denied the sweet catharsis was out of the question.

His schoolmates not expecting of what was to come, leisured on a large brown sofa in front of him. Their drinks had been refilled probably for the fourth time this evening, relaxing both the people and the topics of conversation, and that meant it was his time to pounce.

-No, we don't . That's because we've gone to different middle schools Bart. - A husky feminine voice with pitch just a little on the high side replied. Taking her adoring browns from the object of her affection she quickly appraised him before continuing. -Please do try to keep up. We soon won't be going to the same high school once this year ends… - She finished, sighing. Being snuggled up in the arms of her Romeo, it was hard to conclude whether her tone was because of the quickly approaching future, or rather due to the present sitting arrangement. Perhaps it's due to both.

Nevertheless, she didn't wait for a reply, and having swiftly untangled herself, her eyes were already set on the glass table holding the drinks in front of her. Basically, an offhand remark instead of her usual challenging, cheeky self. That suited Bart just fine, as it meant that on his journey to tell that long held secret, on the first intersection the lights were green so to speak, and now he'll be able to pass without slowing down.

Without slowing down was also the way a glass of vodka martini was taken, sipped, and put back on the coaster next to the gin and tonic belonging to the other couch dweller. The two outmost coasters, just like their corresponding stools were currently empty. The one to Bart's left awaited him and his Cuba Libre, next sat a gin and tonic, then vodka martini, and the last one was currently vacant. Positioning himself with little grace between the single large wooden column propping the glass table and his short but robust leather-bound stool, after struggling briefly he took a seat and continued.

-Be that as it may, but have I told you about how by thirteen I've already had ten girlfriends? - He asked, intending to talk in a way as to spark curiosity in his friends but, because sitting is hard, just ended up sounding frustrated.

-Oh not this again... - The male part of the couch groaned. -Bart. Even though we haven't gone to the same middle school, you've mentioned this story far too often to, by now, spark even a little bit of curiosity in any of us.

-Exactly, Dom's right. You're beginning to talk nonsense, have another drink, mate! - A second male voice spoke, this one although not being in the same room came from behind them. Ghosts in the walls? Mysterious ventriloquists turned party crashers? Who? Where? When? Huh? Those were the thoughts that came rushing through Bart's confused brain, right until he heard that annoying Australian "mate", which immediately made him remember that the alcohol was chilling in the fridge. Knowledge where the alcohol is, and that it's coming, made him relax after that little spot of distress, and a serene smile appeared on his face. Alright mate, indeed.

-No, no, guys.. Guys. It's all true... What I've been telling… Back then. That's what's true... - He rambled, trying not to stall the conversation.

-Bart you're mumbling, have another drink instead! - An interjection, again, from the fridge's vicinity.

-Hush you... It's just that, we were just children at the time you know? - Bart continued, trying to begin to explain his point. -Back then, all it took to get a girlfriend, was to bring her a flower once, then maybe give her some chocolates and bada bim, bada boom you had a girlfriend, yea? – Still the emphasis was on "trying" but what's this? Alcohol to the rescue! After downing it in one big gulp, and before anyone could get a new conversation started, he resumed retelling of his story. -From that point on, there was some hand holding, a couple conversations about sweet nothings, and then two weeks have passed, during which not much has happened, and you forgot all about it... That's just the way it was back then, you know? - He finished… But what's this, ooh a red light, shiny!

-Booo! That story sucked! - Booed the owner of the first male voice.

-Definitely, more drinks are in order! - Said the owner of the other male voice, who by now has returned from the kitchen, and at moment was in the process of refiling everyone's drinks.

-Ok. Thanks, Dom, wait a sec. Hold your horses, that's just the beginning. There are other things coming up. You just wait. - Red and yellow? -For example... In fourth grade I got talking with this girl, a good looking lassy; long dark hair, seemed nice, five out of seven... About kissing, and just like that, she asked if I wanted to do some. Of course, I said yes, never kissed a girl before, and then.. We did! - Exclaimed Bart, gesticulating enthusiastically.

-So, to recap… What you're saying is; young girls are easy, you took an advantage of them, for what, to drive up your count on a clicker? And that there is still more of this to come via your amazing stories. Stories which will drive us all wild, correct? - Asked the female voice, venom glands all filled up.

-No! I'm not saying any of that. I don't have a clicker. Besides, that relationship didn't even last one day... - He responded eloquently, trying to not end up looking like a pedo.

-Then you're just taking the mickey, Bart! Those weren't proper girlfriends, and when you say they were you look like a full of it tool! - Dom accused, pointing accusingly at Bart each time a punctuation mark came along. That the hand he used to point while making his accusations was holding a glass sloshing with alcohol every time he pointed, was obviously of no consequence at the time. Accusation stands… Accusingly.

-Yea. Vera's right. You're such a pedo Bart! – This time it was Mikey who accused Bart. Finished with the refills he used his gazelle like grace to move around the table before plopping on the stool, his Guinness settling on the coaster with a green clover floating on the thin foam.

-Hey! All of them were the same age as me! I was not a pedo... - Bart said forcefully, but in a betraying gesture he ran a hand through his brown hair.

-Whatever. Now... Everybody! We're going to be toasting the birthday boy! - Mike proposed cheerfully.

-Cheers! - Everyone raised their glasses, drank the alcohol down, and Vera called the night's bartender for a change of beverage.

-Mike! The next bottle you'll open, you'll open the one that I've brought. It's chilling in the freezer, the big one with a green label. It's about time we moved on to something more matching the occasion, hm? - She issued her request, getting a stray lock of her long curly hair out of her face before putting her baby-blues on Dom, smiling cheekily and wiggling her dark eyebrows.

-That's what I'm talking about! - He agreed returning the fond gaze with his amber browns and coming right back at her with a wiggle of his own blond ones.

-Sure! I'm all for it. Bottle of whisk-heey coming right up, no problem. - Mike answered enthusiastically, immediately getting up to fetch it.

Meanwhile, his friend's attention distracted by the subject of alcohol, Bart concluded that if he acted now, they wouldn't have the chance to object to another try of Casanova's kumbaya. The mind of a drunk works in mysterious, but simple ways. Putting it simply, if this were a drag race strip the second yellow light would've light up for him. Thus, he put the metaphorical gear in, and went on the offensive.

-Oi! You want proper girlfriends? I'll give you proper girlfriends! Remember my last girlfriend, the one from middle school? She was a proper girlfriend, we even did the sex! - Proclaiming loudly, he started the show using his current state of intoxication as a bravery substitute. He was absolutely sure that he would need it, as the reason why he has never told this story in full before, was that he was: a) scared of the listener's reaction, b) not sure about actual comedic value of it, and without comedy what's the point of telling it, c) scared of its conclusion, or d) all of the above. You be the judge, 'cause at that moment, Bart sure as gold didn't know.

It was Mike who was the first to begin the interrogation. He was positively buzzing with excitement at the sheer thought. Not to mention, that with all of the ideas that at that moment must've been passing through his head, add to that the night's alcohol consumption and he worked himself to quite a state. -You and Icky? You'd actually popped her cherry? Man… Getting to shag a Sheila at thirteen, noice, what a man. - As It appears, the day before the party he watched a marathon of Steve Irwin's and it stuck, because Australia was the ginger's theme throughout the evening.

-Although come to think of it, wasn't she already past that point? Since you know, you weren't exactly the first guy to that party in middle school. Am I right guys?! Bowchicka bow wow! - Even before he finished, Vera started to open her mouth to deliver the follow up. It would soften Bart with by the power of the ol' one - two. He just knew it. A small dose of sarcastic amusement in her voice, and partly veiled disgust present on her face. Oh, and the venom… Lots and lots of venom.

-You guys know, that you are acting like unbelievable pigs. Barty, Mikey, you know that, right? - Left to the body. Bart thought to himself. -Talking about her, like she's a piece of meat, Mike I expected better from you! - Right to the chin? -It's bad enough that Bart here acts like an idiot, but at least he's defending his ego, meanwhile you just act like a daft sod without any reason! - She ranted, her lovely features tainted by disgust at Mike's behavior.

-Hey, I'm not acting like a daft sod! - Mike retorted eloquently. -If Bart wants to do some sharing of his experiences with Icky, to his friends, that's his business. I just got curious, because it finally started to get interesting for once. So forgive me… For showing some bloody enthusiasm here, alright mate! - He shouted back at Vera.

-Be that as it may. - Vera responded calmly. -The fact of the matter is, that the way you asked them didn't differ from a hog running through the jungle. - She continued, hammering her point home into Mike's skull. - Ever heard of not breaking the wall with your head? Mikey.. Come on! - He began to open his mouth to reply, but she cut him off before he managed to say anything. -And Anyway, that's beside the point, because there is no way this party ends, and Bart doesn't spill the beans. - She added, finishing her ribbing into the night's bar person, and having emptied her venom glands, she mellowed down a bit. Mike started to open his mouth, but was cut off, this time by Bart.

-Okay… Mike's lack of subtlety aside, personally I wonder, what does our birthday boy think?- Bart asked, spilling a bit while he drank his eighth shot this evening. -Aren't we just friends having a good time reminiscing, or are we just acting like pigs? What's it gonna be Dom?

-I think... - Dom began, forming his reply carefully. - That in Mike's case it's obviously the hog option. - He said smiling, while Bart and Vera sniggered, Mikey just barked an -'Apreciate it. -And we're gonna be so hammered tonight, that by next morning we won't remember it anyway. So... After another round of bottom's up, I want to hear what Bart's got to say. - He said, and after a call of -Cheers! - Echoed throughout the room and a -That's what I'm talking about! - From Mike, everyone's attention turned to Bart.

Green light lit, Tora! Tora! Tora! Dive! Dive! Dive! And we're finally off from that blasted metaphorical intersection to begin the road to catharsis in earnest.

-Ok. So... We were both thirteen, yea? Our classes have finished, and while we were making our way out I asked her to drop by. She agreed and after texting her folks, we headed to Casa de Bart. Once we got there, I brought refreshments and put some sexy music on. We relaxed and soon it got to making out. After some time was spent on that pleasurable activity, I peeled her clothes off. She took mine, and we hopped under the covers. So far so good, yea? - Here Bart decided to pause in order to build some dramatic tension, and took a swing from his glass.

-We can imagine what went next, Bart... You can spare us the details. Oink, oink. - Vera said popping his tension, as if it was a balloon taken to a needle.

-Don't be such a prude Vera! Be glad I didn't describe the 3 hour dry humping session that got me to that moment... - Bart riposted, slightly peeved about his wasted dramatic tension, to which her only response was a sly smile, and hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

-I wasn't planning on sharing the details. Besides I wouldn't have done so without being asked first...  
\- He added offhandedly, before getting on with his story. -Sigh... So... As I was saying, the action went undercover, and for a while hands and mouths were everywhere, all in all every bit of an afternoon delight, which was nice.

-If you're not going to… - Mike started to say, but Bart plowed on ignoring him, thanks to the use of one of the most effective of rhetorical techniques in such situations: the shouting.

-BUT! One moment everything is going ok, and the next, she gets up and hightails it to the bathroom like a startled doe! I mean come on, O O Spathetti-os, what's the dealio here? - He asked rhetorically, having finished shouting.

-Cut the crap Bart! Did you take her cherry, or not? - This time it was Dom who butted in. Naturally having grown impatient with this beating around the bush his eighteen year old stud-instinct was eager for the main dish.

-Wouldn't you like to know Mr. hothead, just be cool and you'll know in a minute. Jeez... - Bart answered, getting slightly peeved by now. -So.. I got up, walked up to the bathroom the door, and asked her if she was ok... You know the caring and concerned guy that I am. I was worried… I said: Icky, Icky... What's the dealio? - Hearing Bart's trademark obnoxious drone, several hands went up to several foreheads. -She clearly has heard the concern in my voice, because the reply came immediately. – Oblivious, Bart continued. -She said that there is a little bit of blood and the fun is done for the day. - And with that Bart spread his arms wide, having ended his retrospection of that fateful day.

-Bart, dude.. Did you get to put your penis in her? - This time it was Mike who asked Bart as simply as he could.

-No. - Came the reply.

\- If there was no dick, there was no sex. - Mike stated with finality.

-There was plenty of dick! - Bart rebutted getting a little bit hot under the collar. Apparently Dom noticed it and instead of teasing him about what it, said something else to calm him down a bit.

-Mike was just saying that in his opinion without a vaginal penetration, you are still a virgin. - Dom said calmly.

-Oh, I don't know about her, but I, am still a virgin. - Bart replied bluntly.

-So you've just lied about having sex with her? - Asked Vera in a disbelieving tone and an expression to match.

-No, we have had the sex. Just not by putting a penis into a vagina. And besides we weren't talking about that... - Bart replied, getting seriously annoyed now.

-And what were we talking about? - Mike asked, confusion written plainly on his pointed face.

-We were talking whether I burst her hymen! - Bart replied, getting angry.

-And did you? - Mike asked disbelievingly.

-I don't know! - Bart yelled angrily, having gotten pretty angry now.

-What do you mean, you don't know? Either there was blood from a burst hymen, or there wasn't, and you said there was... - Dom, trying to be the voice of reason here, said.

-I don't know because, I don't know even if she had a hymen to begin with. Maybe I just scratched her vajayjay with a finger, or maybe she just got her period then. I don't know. - Bart replied, his cheeks pink from anger, bushy eyebrows furrowed, and the twinkle from his normally mischievous greens extinguished.

-How could she not have a hymen to begin with, all women do, along with the lips, the clitoris and so on… - Mike said with a condescending tone.

-Well she wasn't exactly a hundred percent female, now was she? - Bart answered, raising his voice, his face now fully pink.

-What?! -The others yelled in unison.

-Icky... Was a hermaphrodite, and she did not have a clitoris, so she might also not have a hymen. - Bart said through gritted teeth.

-You're having us on, mate. If she didn't have a love button, then how did she pee, huh? Through her asshole like birds, huh? - Mike asked, furrowing his brow and deepening the storm of freckles on his pale face.

-Mike, hermaphrodites have penises as well as vaginas. - Vera scoffed.

-You sucked a cock, mate?! - Mike exclaimed, closing his naive blues from the sheer amount of mirth.

Mike's exclamation finally pushed Bart past his boiling point. Needing to let his anger out somehow, he tackled poor, old Mikey to the ground. At first the ginger couldn't even do anything to defend himself because he was laughing so hard. And then Bart yelled: -After I'm done, she will be more of a man than you! - For a while neither Dom, nor Vera could help poor Mike, because while he was being pummeled in the crotch the couch was shaking from their laughter.

Soon though, Bart got out of breath and he let go of Mike. After that, the culminating moment of the evening passed, Vera's whiskey finished, and they've been reduced to just chilling and playing cards. They did that for a while but to Bart it soon became apparent that Vera and Dom wanted to spend the rest of the evening together. He bid them goodbye, and having nothing else to do, went home. He was the only one who remembered what really happened on Dom's coming of age party. Although Mike did walk funny for a few days. At the end of the day, this was a welcome outcome.

Following Bart's experience with Icky, there came eight years of celibacy during which, he focused on the "calling of the ages" of his town. After a while not only did he become a computer nerd, but also a history buff. A wombo - combo that (who knew) would somehow not swoon the ladies for that he wasn't interested, because clearly he was. No sudden bouts of coming out of the closet in this story. It's just that in the matter of swooning, it's not his interest that matters. Thus, having been given the proverbial lemons from life, he went on to make the lemonade out of them.

Alas it is not difficult to pretend to others as well as to yourself that instead of the ladies, one is interested in one's future. Especially since if the future held good grades then the future's future was promised to also hold a car. Such were Bart's highschool beginnings. Not even a year passed before his wish came true. He got great grades in stuff he was interested in, and as a reward for those a car from his parents. Not exactly the pussywagon, yet... But all was well. The sweet and sour taste of life's lemonade was exactly the Bart's fancy at the time.

But wait, there's more. To add the metaphorical sugar to the metaphorical lemonade he even became the vice-president of the student body. Even his grandfather's eyebrows were impressed. Good sport Bart, have a scooby snack. Life, being a fickle mistress that she is, quickly grew bored of all of that added sugar. Unfortunately for Bart the new hobby she picked up was brewing. Brewing as in: far above him unseen before it hit with a force of a hurricane, a storm was brewing.

To be precise until it actually hit, everything was sunshine and roses so it's understandable why he didn't expect anything. Understandable but a failure of imagination nonetheless. Especially since it struck only because on a school trip his roommate decided it was just the most prim of an idea to make a little joke when someone was knocking to their door.

During their trip, the school was staying at an Ukrainian monastery. Bart's room was the only one not in the building's main body, and so he and the three of his friends concluded that being out of the teachers way, they could relax and have a consequence free evening. They've had a grand ol' time, talking, laughing, and admiring what they bought on the local bazaar that day. Soon the booze was fished out, and they started drinking some cheap Ukrainian (not the native garbage they made there, the imports of course) red wine and beers out of the cups they've nicked from the cafeteria.

Bart was in the middle of his particularly passionate (loud) retelling of one of his favorite stories from history, when all of a sudden there came a knock to their door and someone began to turn the handle trying to get in. Being at least a little bit smart before they brought out the booze, the window, its curtains and the door were closed and locked. Feeling secure, they were sure, cocky even that they were safe from any unwanted intrusion on the teacher front.

So, it was with good reason that they've assumed, it couldn't have been one of the teachers. Instead it must be just one of their friends trying to get it. And thus, as if it was a bad knock knock joke the disaster unfolded:

-...AND THE WHOLE NAZI ARMY GROUP WAS BOGGED DOWN THERE, UNTIL THE POLES RETREATED! - Bart boomed at his audience. He was just about to segway to the bit about two gun trains and a German panzerdivison, when a knock on the door suddenly made him stop.

-*Knock knock* - An energetic knock and a twist to the door handle came from the outside.

-Who's there? - Mike asked, full of mirth from the alcohol and amusement from Bart's story.

-The police. - A male voice answered from the outside.

-F**k off! - Came Mike's cocky reply.

-Open the door! It's your teacher… - Groaned the voice from the outside.

While the smiles still stayed on the young and naive faces, for Bart it was time to act, and act quickly. Being the only one to recognize to whom the voice belonged, he went into a frenzy. Damage control was something that he was well experienced in. Flying around the room, he closed the bottles and hid them under the beds. Seeing that, his friends just looked at each other, shrugged, dropped the smiles and humoring Bart drunk what was still left in the cups, before putting them away with the bottles.

Since the whole thing took only seconds, nothing seemed amiss when the door was finally opened. To their constipating horror behind it… Was the wimpy history teacher. He came in, took a little look around, and after saying an "-All right then." - He left. Everyone let out a sigh of relief, and after Bart scolded Mikey for being an idiot, they relaxed. But not even five minutes passed, before the gestapo came knocking. This time there were no smiles to be replaced by expressions of horror.

When the door opened for the second time, the wimpy guy came accompanied by the strictest teacher in the whole school. Having brought the backup with him, he felt confident enough, and did a thorough frisk of the room. With his NKVD partner as witness he found all the cups, as well as all of the bottles of alcohol there was to find. Suffice to say that even though they could legally buy and drink alcohol there, the teachers did not hold to the same idea on the matter. After the trip poor Bart was no longer the vice-president.

Coincidentally another joke, this time made by Bart himself got him thrown out of his class, permanently. After that little stunt he upped the ante by managing to fail his finals on ironically; The Cabaret - a presentation. Damn you Microsoft Powerpoint! After all, Bart was nothing if not stubborn. In the face of such adversity he dug his heels in, and got to work. Having studied all summer, he managed to get a decent score on his finals, and just by the skin of his teeth he got accepted to a university. Filled with determination to not to allow for happenstance to dictate his life, he enrolled into law.

Due to some creative administrative pleas he managed to complete 3 years out of five. Not flunking out, but a bit of on and off education. Thanks to that he was able to spend a couple of months living in England and got himself an Insurance Number. Something that turned out to be indispensable in getting any employment. Sadly, Bart found out about that little tidbit, after he had come to Britain. So let's be kind and just say that this time he made great groundwork for a second try at assimilating in the UK, and leave it at that.

Unfortunately when you're away from home, time doesn't stop along with your education. While he was away the situation at home changed and although back when he first enrolled a career in law promised wealth and easy money... By the time he finally got back to the homecuntry, lawyers multiplied like crazy. These days instead of wealth, a job in this field promised long working hours for minimum wage, and that was if you got lucky and someone actually hired you.

Bart a 24 year old uni senior (4th year), wasn't lucky. Going British was an obvious choice for him and so he transferred. Although he did swim in pussy a couple of times, so in theory he had that going for him, which was nice... Except, at first it wasn't quite what he hoped for. First of all, it was not the good grades or the car that brought this on. Instead it was an electric hair shaver. It turned out that shaving pussies is exactly the way to get yourself swimming in pussy. Who would have guessed? Not Bart, obviously.

Second of all, it turns out that giving his mother's pussy a haircut a couple of times wasn't exactly the dream he envisioned when he was imagining it. It wasn't easy, pleasurable (or even painless for that matter, course those little teeth), and he was positively swimming in pussy hair each time, something absolutely inexcusable if it had been an actual woman. Luckily, not all was doom and gloom, and deep scratches from cat's claws on hands and legs. Since there were only eight years of celibacy, and not a decade, we can reasonably conclude that at twenty one years of age Bart's fortune changed.

Having reached the age of manhood, he decided that it was about time to put an end to the sausage party, and get himself laid. The days of summer passed on visits to the pubs and several parties, sampling the fine British way of life but alas, even though he tried so hard, in the end it didn't even matter. That's because his luck only changed when Destiny had its fill of the sour taste of lemons, easy on the sugar, thank you very much. The stream of that particular metaphorical fruit was sourced from only the finest organic back pains that just suddenly exploded one day.

To remedy them at first Bart tied his GP but after getting laughed out of the doctor's office he started going to a local massage studio, and there he met Klara. Klara looked like everything he found attractive in a woman. She was fit, curvy, and had a sharp wit coupled with an open mind. They clicked straight away, and soon their relationship moved to dating. Before long the bottled up passion found its release, and continued to do so for a while.

After his third year yet another summer vacation started. While his plan was to just pamper his posterior all summer, his mum decided to send him on a marketing and social networking symposium / meeting at the Mars Marketing Events PR Agency in London. She hoped he would bring back ideas on how to not go out of business in a constantly shrinking market for travel agents. Both the customers and destination options were just not as many as it used to be. Thus the Mars idea was born. Seeing this as the perfect opportunity to do some sightseeing in the capital, he eagerly agreed. Things moved quickly and in few days he was packed, the hotel was booked, and the plane tickets were placed in his wallet along with some spending money.

The journey was smooth and uneventful. Passing by central London Bart thought that it seemed very nice. Maybe too posh for his taste, but he was not one to complain. After travelling all day, the night fell by the time he got to his hotel room and as soon as his face touched the pillow he entered the land of Nod. Having slept like a rock he woke up refreshed for once and was ready to start his big day. He dressed in a white shirt, dark jeans and a sports jacket before coming down for breakfast. There, not even a minute passed before the choice fell on a big plate of a full English, which instantly became his new favorite.

Once the plate was cleaned out of all the yummy sausages, delicious plain eggs, all of the fried beans got scooped with toast, and mushrooms mixed with tomatoes devoured, he ventured out of the hotel. The sun was out on a miraculously clear sky, and along with a slight breeze it gently caressed his face with pleasant warmth. Breathing in the fresh air of a beautiful English morning, he made his way for a train into London. From Crystal Palace the choo-choo got to Victoria, then from Victoria it was the Tube to Shoreditch, where the Agency was located.

-Man, I've gone west and the sky really is blue... - Bart said to himself, having travelled all that way from the north part of town where the airport was located, to the south, and now going back to the city center he could really appreciate how much time one had to spend commuting through this urban behemoth. The event started at 10 o'clock sharp and involved several talks on connecting shoppers to the distributors, building business relationships with clients, managing the public profile of a brand on social networks, some public relations stuff, and promotion of their own work.

All in all Bart left Mars at half three pm with a handful of folders, and promotional portfolios. He was richer in knowledge that what he already told his mum about going international, or coupling together vacations and flight tickets on her own, were great ways to connect her to the customers. And now he had to say that to her again, but this time he had the support of leaflets in a foreign language. Oh, and the receipts that she spend her own money for that sole purpose. Surely, this couldn't go bad or anything…

Thinking about it for a while, and with God not forthcoming with any miracles, he decided to put that hypothesis to the test. Without further ado Bart called his mum, and described the event. To his great surprise, she was not pleased. Being not pleased wasn't what surprised him, what happened afterwards, though, was. In fact she yelled at him so hard he became quite the spectacle. Around him people on the sidewalk literally stopped and stared. Minutes passed, her yelling continued and the merriment only grew on their faces. There were some pitying looks here and there, but mostly he was just a spontaneous entertainment for them. Seriously the lungs on that woman...

Finally, having ran out of steam she hung up on him. He stood there, speechless. Looking at his phone, even though the conversation ended three minutes ago, it was still held at arm's length. Obviously he expected a yelling, but becoming a spectacle for an entire street of busy Londoners during the afternoon rush… Jippers. People around him resumed walking to their destinations, and without anything else to do he sighed, and too, moved on. To get back to his hotel in Crystal Palace, he needed to get to the Victoria underground station, and that, was still a long way away. With that thought in his head he started walking.

He was currently at a station that belonged to the black lane of the London Underground. It didn't reach Victoria, but he took it anyway to at least start moving in the right direction. He intended to swap lanes at St. Pancras, but after a couple of yards there, his stomach growled with the voice of the beast. Finally reminded of how hungry he had gotten, the destination changed. Instead of continuing on his journey, he left the tube and entered King's Cross. Making his way to the nearest snack shop he began unconsciously stroking the bulge, that formed below his trousers front pocket.

The wad of cash residing in his wallet consisted the aforementioned bulge and was very eager to be spent. With this being the only thing that currently drove him, he joined the nearest queue for tea and crumpets.


	3. Let's kill him?

AN: This is where the main story starts, but we're not at the main action yet. That will happen when we'll reach Hogwarts. Which will happen after we've explained the reason for this story to exist i.e. how come it's different from other ff and canon.

Act 1, Chapter 2: Crumpets in my sights at King's Cross.

On the King's Cross railway station the day was passing with the usual central London's hustle and bustle. There were crowds of people on the ground floor, that were looking at the information displayed on the LED panels.

Crowds formed the queues to the shops selling food and trinkets that ensnared eager tourists. Crowds that stood in queues to the ticket machines scattered throughout the building. But above of all, there were crowds entering and exiting the station.

The station itself was divided into two sections. One that was there for commerce, the other was there for trains. One had many shops, restaurants, and information booths. The other had a row of gates dividing it from the former, and sets of train tracks running its entire width.

Overlooking it all, leaning on a guard rail, was a pair of bespectacled green eyes. A curious trinket that coincidentally matched colors with its owner. He was hard at work diligently skimming through the crowd passing underneath. The guy was a clean shaven bloke, with dark hair, who, judging by the wrinkles around his mouth, was in his late thirties.

Being of moderate height and build, one could describe him as an example of an unassuming person.

Today it was doubly so, wearing a grey flannel shirt, light blue jeans, and a pair of not branded sports shoes his look practically screamed "Among breakfasts, I'm the porridge of people". Bland and bland.

At least that would've been the case, If not for a surprising amount of scars. How do you even fit so much scar tissue on a man, without making him look like a some kind of freak of nature? Underneath clothes that's how.

With an attire that's completely out of place in the hot summer afternoon, the lamo - cameleon lurks unnoticed. But a buttoned up shirt and no rolled up sleeves in this weather? Give me a break, brother, hasn't fashion and personal hygiene been hurt enough already? When will the suffering end?

For the last two hours he bared the scrutiny of passersby, and since there were no complaints or loud comments forthcoming, that must mean that the disguise is working. Really, the pit stains were just overdoing it. Still, the predator became part of the crowd, waiting for his time to pounce.

Suddenly, his eyes focused on a person that just entered the station. Realizing just who exactly graced King's Cross Station with his presence, they closed for a second in sheer delight. At last, he'd finally see to something that eluded him for years.

Adrenaline seeped into his veins, and with a sly smile dancing across the lips he abandoned his post, came down a flight of stairs and joined his mark on the ground floor. Walking in the direction of the food courts with each passing second the distance between them closed.

With less than thirty yards separating them, he estimated that the somewhat tall, brown haired man in front of him sported a rather thick figure beneath his expensive jacket. Possibly over 200 pounds of fat and muscle.

With a smile he that it is all for the better, the bigger they are, the harder they fall, after all. At twenty paces away, his mouth escaped sounds of humming "London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down…"

With just the last ten to go, he advanced at a run. Running at top speed after just a few bounds, he brought down the unsuspecting man as hard as he could. Before hitting the ground the violent movement jerked the jacket open and everyone around gasped.

People in the queue did so, because it was all so sudden and unexpected. The guy on the floor just had his breath knocked out of him and received a possible concussion, and our hero gasped from anger. That was his way, to stop himself from screaming a stream of curses.

The reason for his anger poked its stupid face out from the jacket folds, mocking him out from its hiding place, and enjoying the newfound freedom. The expected formal white shirt that his prey was going to be wearing today, was missing. Wrong person sunny boy Jim, whoopsie daisy, you won't fix it with a simple "sorry" this time.

Putting people's fashion sense aside (that jacket, with a t-shirt, really?), a tee with the graphic of the American bald eagle with words "FREEDOM" and "PATRIOTS", although clashing with that particular jacket, could be forgiven. However, the mistaken target, and the resulting scene now unfolding, was a different matter entirely.

When at this point most people would be shouting profanities, or demanding explanations, the guy on the ground was not one for such trivialities. Judging by his expression a true installation of democracy was about to take place. With his bearings taken, and target locked in his sights, all of his attention was focused on the now cringing assailant.

In that short moment, he had to have reached a conclusion along the lines of: "Set protocol: I'm taking this little twerp down. Reasoning: he could be sporting a deadly weapon, therefore he must be immediately rendered harmless forever." It had to be, because in less than three seconds the guy was up, and a can of pepper spray shined in his hand.

Meanwhile, his assailant made it to "else…" in a mad dash through the words that, given more time might've been a start of a reasonable explanation but alas... Saying that one is sorry, and -"It's just a tragic mistake I swear", - was all for naught. The consequences happen regardless of intentions.

Moreover as he was already being pepper sprayed in those lovely greens of his, an open mouth only made things worse for him, but then a helpful uppercut came to close it, and made it all, all right.

A passing police foot patrol bore witness to the events, and before more helpful embraces could follow, they intervened and put a stop to the kafuffle. The whole thing didn't even take a minute but that was enough for the coughing to start.

As the pepper spray mist spread, everyone in the vicinity of Orangeface-greeneyes, started coughing, dry heaving, or both. Seeing this, the London's finest displayed the famous British common sense, and decided that they'd help most by leaving.

It was in no time at all, that the bastard responsible for the orange fog had his hands in plastic cuffs, and was being led out of the station. Gotta pad those police crime stats, we mustn't forget about them, my precious. Pepper spray is a forbidden item in the UK after all.

Barely seeing this through the haze and watered eyes, one of the bystanders yelled after them, halting their retreat halfway to the station's exit.

-What about us? - That gave the bobbies a pause. They whispered a few words to each other and turned back towards the group standing by the restaurant.

-Hey, buddy! - They yelled back.

-Aye? - The buddy replied.

-Walk it off! - The bobbies concluded.

With victory for the New Scotland Yard hard earned, they carried on and out of the station. The people in the queue also carried on. Coughing and with his glasses covered in gunk, Scarface carried on and found a vacant table nearby. It was abandoned due to the mist around him in case you were wondering, my dears.

Once seated he took a napkin from the table and tried his best to clean both the glasses and his face.

The mistake cost him five minutes tops. During that time no trains were scheduled to depart, and no customer was served as all of the station staff paused what they were doing in order to sneak a peek.

Now though, just as quickly as it began, the spectacle was finished. Everyone resumed what they were doing before, and the clock was again ticking. It was time to hustle. Yet before he could even move a muscle someone from the queue for the tea and crumpets started asking questions.

-Do you enjoy being a nuisance for everyone else? - Said the blurry shape.

-Excuse me? - He replied.

-You're making it difficult for other people to breathe, haven't you noticed how everyone around you is coughing? – The Shape explained snarkly.

-Well… - Caught off guard, Scarface stayed off guard, his emotions mixed.

-Why don't you just scamper off to the toilet, and wash the pepper off of you? – The Shape persisted with its crusade for clean air.

-Um.. – Although still with no clear course of action in mind, Scarface began to dislike the Shape.

-Besides you shouldn't be sitting here anyway. – Still the Shape continued with its yapping.

-Oh? And why is that? – Asked Scarface, feigning politeness, but hoping for the Shape to bugger off.

-Having not bought anything, you're hogging a space that's meant for the customers. As in: not you.  
\- The Shape explained it, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.

-I can't find my way to the toilet without my glasses, and they're full of gunk from that spray. – Scarface explained putting as much desperation into his voice as he could, not that he was hopeless and therefore desperate for the Shape's help, no, no, no. He was just desperate for the Shape to leave him alone.

-Trying to steal me away after exchanging just a few sentences? Behave! ...Or at least buy me a dinner first. – Said the Shape, changing the tone of conversation with a twist and a twirl, though actually standing still.

-Fine. Get me to the damned toilet, and you got yourself a deal. – Scarface said exasperated, and wondered if he was going to regret that change of tone of conversation.

-I know a nice pub in south Kensington. As it's only a couple of stops from here it wouldn't be much trouble. – The Shape offered, with hope in its voice.

-That's nice, but I was just going to give you the cash and rush away. – Scarface politely declined, questioning in his mind whether the Shape was actually flirting with him.

-What a shame. – The Shape sounded disappointed.

-Innit? – Scarface responded accordingly.

-Ya man. Bummertown. – The Shape said continuing the disappointed theme.

-Had it been some other time I would have, sorry mate. – Scarface replied trying to placate the Shape, despite himself. After all, he owned the Shape nothing, it was nothing to him, and he was on an active assignment. Heck, he couldn't even see it properly!

The conversation hit a snag and an awkward silence descended. But then the Shape grabbed his wrist and they headed to the gents. Now that he was up close with this person even without his glasses he noticed that he was being led by a man dressed remarkably similarly to the guy that he just tackled to the ground.

Although, come to think of it. With those white cuffs peeking out of the jacket's sleeves, the shape resembled his target even more than even the guy with the pepper can. Being a man that doesn't believe in coincidences he concluded that either his vision got somehow damaged, or that he finally cracked under pressure and started seeing his target everywhere.

There was a rumor that the Macbeth Syndrome sometimes happened to professional assassins and because of it, many had to retire. But what was he supposed to do mid assignment? Run for the hills? Leave his target here, and notify "them" of his failure? Start a massacre in the center of London?

Further thoughts and speculations got cut short as they've arrived at their destination. The men's bathroom like any generic public washroom in a public location had tiled floor, row of urinals, row of stalls, and a row of sinks separated by a wall.

Above the sinks were mirrors and embedded soap dispensers with paper towel boxes and air dryers on the side. The Shape withdrew a couple of steps, and he began scrubbing the gunk off his face and glasses. Finished, he dried and turned around to face the stranger.

-Nice assortment of scars you got there. Must be quite the story? - Asked the stranger, eyeing his face with curiosity.

-Well, you know life… - Came our Macbeth's absentminded reply, his focus temporarily occupied by patting down his fringe back in its place with one hand, with the other taking out his wallet.

-Well, I know, I came here for a business meeting, and now I doubt I'll be employed much longer, however I don't think that my little vacation can compare with you looking, as if you took a face full of molten shrapnel to the face. - Casually leaning against the wall, the stranger forth came with casual despair.

-As I've said, I'm in a bit of a rush, so here is the promised tenner. - Surprised, by the sudden bout of openness he replied in a surprised tone while handing out a business card along with the banknote.

-If in the near future you find yourself looking for employment check out the website on the card. We're hiring, and if you pass the video interview, we'll cover the travel expenses.

-The Stranger took it, thanked him, gave his own contact details, and after saying their goodbyes, Macbeth left to find the rest of his target's doppelgangers that he will with no doubt be seeing today at the station.

Despite all that's happened he had a spring in his step and a single thought in his mind. Buying a solution to his current predicament for only ten pounds was a deal that could only happen once in a lifetime.

For him it was the time that was precious and money that was cheap. Thanks to that guy, he now had a way to complete his mission even though he's gone looney. Grateful for that, he didn't even mind the loss of sanity, as it was bound to happen sometime. Easy come easy go...

About a dozen of contrived small talks and job offers later Macbeth was on his way home to Islington. Going up the steps he sang a strange version of "Barbie girl" under his nose: -"…life's fantastic, as a spastic…", - and skipping back to HQ, admired the moon visible on the midnight sky.

In his case the future was going to be all right, and knowing that, sleep came easily that night. All of the interviews were already scheduled for tomorrow, all of the emailed conversations concluded. And all of the candidates would arrive at a remote location in Surrey.


	4. Let's hire him?

ACT 1, Chapter 3: Race for the sanity.

In his private apartment suite the coocoo clock struck nine o'clock as Macbeth surveyed the Georgian's Conference Centre parking lot. In the interest of time all of the candidates were scheduled to be interviewed together, and at present they were awaiting him in the conference room.

The meeting was scheduled to begin in 15 minutes and before it begun, a little peak inside their lives tickled his fancy. You can tell a lot about a man from a car he drives. Sometimes a lot more than from a job interview.

In his field of vision next to the well-kept greenery of the Georgian's backyard, he saw all kinds of cars parked there. New and gleaming Beamers that looked as if they had just come out from a car detailing shop indicated, that their drivers were driven and organized individuals.

Older distinguished looking Benzes proclaimed their owners to be people of taste and lovers of high quality that put their comfort as a high priority.

Represented in higher numbers were the sensible Vauxhalls, for people who knew the value of money and turned every penny twice. The sporty Fords, fun for the whole family, for dads. Some Japanese compacts for those who followed the latest trends, and a solitary Volvo, for a man who treasures safety above all else.

In their midst his Cossie stood out like an angsty teenager in a line of responsible adults. But alas, it was custom build suit for his needs, and he liked it. Not to mention the added value it accrued over the years as a classic young timer.

With a sigh, he donned his brown tweed suit and buttoned up his brown shirt, before taking his brown leather briefcase and bid his room a final goodbye. At least the queen bed was comfy and the fridge well stocked he thought to himself.

Moving on to the conference room he arrived five minutes before the time of the meeting. It was filled with office chairs set around a large brown wooden table. There was a set of refreshments in the middle of it, and a coffee maker next to a water dispenser in the right corner of the room. On the left side there were various potted plants. Entire front wall was made of glass, while the others were painted a warm beige color but otherwise empty. He welcomed every candidate personally, then politely ordered them to take a seat, and began the interview.

-Gentlemen. Please put your car keys on the table, phones, and wallets so that we can commence this job interview. – Macbeth said confidently. Like little obedient sheep they've all complied and awaited eagerly for next instructions.

-I am pleased to say that all of you passed the initial requirements and are qualified to take this position. Perhaps in an unorthodox move we shall not be discussing your past experiences but since there is only one position available, it will be your character that decides whether you get the job or not. – Macbeth continued, leisurely pacing around the room.

-First, I'd like to get some bearing on how you'll perform throughout the years on the contract. Just because you'll do well on land doesn't mean it'd be enough. As you know, before you get to the area of land operations, your journey will take place on our ship, where you'll also be performing your duties.

It is currently docked and undergoing last maintenance checks in Glasgow port, where you'll need to find yourself three days before setting sail. – Looking at each of them in turn, he saw that all of the candidates had their attention only on him. So far everyone had their game face on, and probably came to this meeting with a mindset of a kid who received their golden ticket to the chocolate factory. Oh how delightful the next moment was going to be.

-The name of our ship is "Dacha", she was formerly known as the "NS Lenin". She's a sixteen thousand ton, and over one hundred and forty five yards long of Soviet Atomics Nuclear Powered Icebreaker. The very first in fact. – Having finished pacing right back at the head of the table he delivered this bombshell with a wide smile on his face. To say that his listener's reactions were mixed would be a gross underestimation, but that is exactly how it was. This chocolate factory is not one of Willy Wonka's, no rivers of candy here.

Mercedesesseesseesmans and Volvo began laughing, probably thinking that it was a joke. Beamers and Fords looked eager, as the promised cash was good and a big ship added credibility to the company. Not to mention if they got the position, to work on a private scientific enterprise that required a nuclear powered vessel it would be a career height for any of them .

Vauxhalls and the Compacts had an expression of shock on their faces, because really, who in this day and age has nuclear powered ships except for the armed forces? There was also one guy whose car key was upside down, and thus the maker's logo wasn't visible. He looked contemplative.

-I see that some of you are amused by my words. – He said, slowly at first, but reacting to the commotion from the German and Swedish comfort club he then got behind them in a few quick steps and in a quiet voice that howled "you don't want to unleash the fury that lies in this tweed" continued.

-Let me assure you, that _if_ you get accepted to this position, you will travel through the Arctic Ocean to Anchorage, then Taiwan, and then to the Antarctica research site on a real, no joke, nuclear powered Icebreaker. – All of the laughing stopped as soon as he was behind them. Now that he was finished the little comfort club members, not only dropped their smiles, but one of them – Volvo's – hands started to tremble.

-If you already know that this is not for you, there is no point in keeping you, and I'd like to bid you good day. – After seeing Volvo's hands he walked up to door saying this and gently opened it showing the little sheep that it was ok to leave.

The comfort club got up and left almost as if on que, but the rest of the candidates sat in their places resolutely. Only about a dozen of them left, but Macbeth had no intentions of stopping the eliminations and asked the following question.

-Do any of you got any questions? – With a smile back on his face he inquired politely, still at the door.

-How exactly reliable is that ship of yours? – One of the Japanese compacts piped up.

-After a little meltdown in the sixties, no problems. – Macbeth replied calmly.

This time it was the compacts that left almost as one. He shook their hands, thanked them for coming and now there were only ten of them left.

-Further questions? – Again he asked.

-You've mentioned sailing through the Arctic Ocean, what can we expect in terms of contact with our families throughout the journey? – This time the question came from the Fords. Understandably, family was a big deal when you're a dad, hence no wonder it came from that section.

-As soon as you're out of the Bearing's straight you'll have a constant satellite communication with whomever you like. Until then the company that we're signed with does not provide the signal cover needed for radio or satellite contact. – He replied with a sad smile on his face. Knowing full well what it'd cost the men in front of him to part ways with their families, it was a given that it'd be a condition "sine qua non" for some of them.

-How long will that part of the journey last for? – Asked the other Ford from the Dad club.

-It is impossible to foresee, but given previous experiences it could be between a month and if the weather gets really bad, then you'd clear the straight next year. If that's something that you just cannot do, I understand and wish you luck someplace else. – He replied, his voice full of compassion.

Some of them just got up, shook his hand and left. Others needed a moment to think this through but still, ended up leaving. He thanked them all for coming, shook hands promised to contact them if anything changed. And then, there were three.

-Gentlemen! Now that there is only three of you left, please take back your car keys, you no longer need them. We'll be getting to know each other a little better in a while… But I believe that I promised this gentleman a dinner. Isn't that so? – He asked smiling, seeing for a split second that the guy's car key was that of a Saab.

-Yes, sir. That is correct. -Came the reply from the Saab. As every candidate looked more or less the same at this meeting, same somewhat tall build, dark hair, same sheep like expressions and so on, and so forth. This guy had a little, almost unperceptive, smile on his face.

-Splendid. So, if that'd not be a problem I propose a change of venue. Let's all have something to eat in the cafeteria at the company expense. After we return, we'll have a little test, and a final decision will be made after that. - He stated, walked up to the door and led his little flock to the cafeteria.

The cafeteria was set in an expansive room with windows on one side and the kitchens on the other. The place was divided by a line of glass food cabinets, and tables with breakfast stations. Walls matched the stone floor and were painted in white. Throughout the room there were wooden tables and chairs aligned in symmetrical lines. White cloth covered the tables, currently empty except for napkins and salt and pepper dispensers.

After they had all sat down at a table for four in the corner of the cafeteria, he pulled out of his briefcase three identical Samsung's Virtual Reality headsets. He then handed them out to the candidates. Dressed in a navy blue suit owner of a BMW got a blue one. Dressed in a light grey suit owner of a Vauxhall got a silver one. Last but not least the owner of the Saab, dressed in a charcoal suit got a black one.

-This is your warm up for the test. As you'll be operating in hybrid reality on your contract, throughout the assignment you must be able to perform your duties with these on. For now, put them on and finish your meal. Please activate them and begin. – The shepherd ordered his sheep, and the sheep let themselves be herded around without complaint.

After everyone ordered, Macbeth had a few laughs as the candidates adjusted to their new reality. Understandably, there were some difficulties as it's not as if everyday one does have to relearn table manners. Soon though everyone adjusted and the rest of their meal passed in relative silence. After a while they came back to the conference room and as they entered eleven o'clock struck.

-Before you sit back at your places, put the boxes from underneath the table on top of it. Inside you'll find parts for the server unit. First one to get his server to the post screen gets the job. You may commence as soon as you lunch the Indianapolis app on your VR headset. Using your head movements you'll be controlling remotely a real life car that is currently at the start line of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. You mustn't crash it. Ready? Begin!

– And they were off. Each of them fiddled about with the side of their headsets, before running to the other side of the table and unpacking the boxes with computer parts. Meanwhile Macbeth leisurely took his place at the head of the table, unpacked his laptop and opened the video stream from the track.

All three cars were already in motion by the time the stream loaded. They drove slowly at first but Macbeth set a protocol of minimum speed to kick in in a minute. Every minute the cars would be picking up speed 5 miles each time.

It looked kind of funny 3 men working assembling computers dressed in suits, constantly tilting their head at an angle. Tilt. Back straight. Tilt. Straight again. Tilt. Again, and again, and again. Oh what fun, the only thing missing was a baa sound, but you can't have everything in life, now can you?

At this pace they've had enough fuel to drive for the next two hours. The cars would drive and drive and drive some more… And their drivers would shake the brains out of their heads by the time they're done.  
Teehee, pip pip, cheerio.

Now, of course those people were no NASCAR drivers, knowing this the protocol was set to not to exceed 100 miles, they had a job to perform after all. Not to mention that it was pretty expensive to replace those cars, so if it were up to him, he'd rather not have to pay for them.

Once the ten minutes mark had passed all of the cars were doing fifty miles per hour. The guys had all of the parts out of the boxes, and Macbeth got up to get some coffee and a peek on how well they were doing.

The Blue worked the quickest and already had his power supply screwed in the case. Then there was the Grey who was fiddling about with the power supply. In last place was the Black having just opened the case.

Ten minutes later when he got back to the video feed, sipping on his coffee a curious thing started occurring. While Blue's and Grey's cars still adhered to the speed minimums, Black's started going faster and faster. It wasn't doing anywhere near the speeds of an actual race but it was getting there.

Not to mention that thanks to the others sticking to the flat portion of the track, Black, driving on the optimum raised part, his race line was free of other cars. He could use more of it take the bends wider then they could, enter and exit corners at higher speed than even the racing drivers. All of that without risking collision. And at much greater fuel consumption.

With greater fuel consumption he would run out of it faster. With an empty tank he wouldn't need to keep driving the car with his head. With a stopped car he could focus more on assembling the server. And with an assembled server faster than his competition he would win. That was a bold strategy Cotton, indeed, let's see if it pays out.

After another thirty minutes , the work of all of the candidates was progressing incredibly slowly. Ever since the protocol forced them to drive at an at least one hundred miles per hour all of them moved as if they had a too full plate of soup worried that they could spill it any second.

However, our boy Blackie almost caught up. Everyone was now installing the coolers, the Saab driver was on the first, the Vauxhall on the second and the Beamer was finishing the fourth. The gap between the candidates was now as narrow as just a minute of normal work, although under the circumstances this was anything but normal.

When the first hour of the unusual test had passed there has been a development. Blackie ran out of petrol. As an utter gentleman he parked the car in the pit lane and immediately after it stopped started meddling with his headset.

Curious, Macbeth pulled up on his screen a window that showed what the candidates were seeing on their VR machines. While Beamer and Vauxhall still raced in their cars, Saab Guy started downloading the software for his server.

Immediately his work speed increased. Not even five minutes had passed before he pulled ahead of both the Blue and the Silver. It looked like the guy had it in the bag and will be finished long before the other two. This of course just would not do. He still had no idea which of them was his target. To remedy this he began arguing in his head on what to do next.

-There needs to be something else that would set them apart. Surely. – The first voice argued. This voice we shall dub Ego.

-But on the other hand, do I really have to? Would it really be that much of a stretch to just hire all three of them and be done with it? Maybe it was best to pass the problem on, and just retire. – The second voice argued back. And this one will be called Super Ego.

-Focus. What do you really know of the target? – The voice of reason interjected. However, calling something "the voice of reason" is something that ain't nobody got time for, so instead it shall be known as Turbo Ego.

-His look obviously. – Turbo deadpanned.

-But they just seem so much alike, there is no way to tell which is the correct one. – Wailed Super.

-So, what else is there? What if the target was one of the people, that already left? – Ego asked thoughtfully.

-Bah. That's nonsense. The intel stated that the target was available, had no familial or work related obligations, and could be easily persuaded with money. It has to be one of them. – Turbo countered in a bored voice.

-What else then? – Asked ego hopelessly.

-Oh, come off it. You're not looking to kill someone, so you're not in danger of having an innocent death weighing on your soul. You're just deciding upon who out of these three will help you save the world from an immortal madman that loves being evil, doing evil, and probably also *doing* evil people.  
– Snapped Turbo.

-I don't want a BMW driver shaping my psyche for the last twenty years, not to mention how dependable can a guy who buys cars to score chicks be when it comes to time travel? – Whined Super.

-It's not actual time travel and you know it. It's just access to sending messages to highly impressionable youth to an inch of his eyeballs twenty four seven, three hundred sixty five days a year for five years realistically, and twenty five years at the most. – Turbo drawled out.

-But what if he turns out to be a perv? – Ego asked worriedly.

-Are we in agreement than that it no longer matters which of them is the right one? – Super asked idly.

-Let's syke on them Cash Money Ranger. She'd find out if they're perverts or not. As long as they're not, I don't see a problem with letting the dice land where they will. – Turbo answered, still drawling out the words.

-I like that idea. Cash Money Ranger it is then. – Macbeth said to himself. Having finished playing around with ideas, his next course of action was to arrange 4 flight tickets to Glasgow, and get Ms. Ranger on the case…


End file.
